Athena
by TheGodmother2
Summary: Filling the time until season five. Walt Longmire and Vic Moretti shipping, of course.
1. Chapter 1

She didn't bother looking at the ripped photograph again before throwing it in the trash and it's not because she didn't want too but rather she wills her eyes closed as she bows her head. Her empty hand collapses against her thigh and her breath comes out hard and steady. She pinches her eyes shut perching her fingers on her forehead. She doesn't want to cry. She just wants to survive. She fills her lungs with air as she promises not to fuck it up again.

His phone call shatters her thoughts and her resiliency skills are not where they need to be. It's easy to say yes to him and she really does hate herself for her unwillingness to hesitate where he is concerned. She has to fix that. It moves to the top of her list. He doesn't give many details, just that he needs her, and she knows that's not what he means. This is business. He's never really given her any real reason to think otherwise but in their time together his hints and body language cloud her judgment of their situation. Non-verbal communication accounts for 92% of meaning and understanding. She heard that somewhere. Maybe it was in detective school learning how to deal with difficult suspects. It sounds right.

He stands on his porch, rifle in one hand, thermos in the other, and he waits for her. She's on his mind. He's not looking for excuses. He knows the truth will hurt her and it was part of the gratification he was looking for. He's ashamed of that now. The white streak of her pickup truck slows as it hits the dirt and kicks it up in a whirlwind. His steps are slow and measured as he descends to meet the Hemi charged beast.

She doesn't smile. She doesn't ask as he walks to the passenger side and slides in; rifle first, his legs filling the floor well, and she tells herself not to stare at their uncommon length and how the loose denim doesn't hide the fullness of his thighs.

"Ruby is putting out the APB."

"Copy that."

He looks at her profile. There's so much he wants to say to her but none of it is any good and it won't do any good either. Not now.

"Where do you want to start?" She asks, cranking the steering wheel to finish the 180 degree turn back to the paved road.

He's not sure what she means at first but answers, "Her office, I suppose, that's where the medical records should be."

Her lips won't break the seal to utter the words she feels. Besides, she's afraid that any admission now would force her into complete subjugation, and that she can never allow. Instead she pushes her Ray-Bans against the frame of her nose with the tip of her index finger and she lets it linger there for just a moment longer than usual as if an accent point on her complete mind shift.

This is business.

Donna's burned van still occupies the parking lot from where the tow truck dropped it. She doesn't bother to ask why it's not at the impound yard for evidence as she looks over at him, rolling her eyes up and down his frame, in complete judgment over his lack thereof. He feels it. Maybe knows he deserves it but he keeps his eyes straight ahead and points towards the building in silence.

She doesn't acknowledge nor defer to him but she clears her throat. She can communicate non-verbally too. The black etched, "Dr. Donna Monahan, Psychiatry Services," slaps her in the face as she checks the handle confirming the door is locked. They walk the exterior of the building looking for any signs of forced entry. She pulls out her cell phone and punches the ten digits with her thumb. She doesn't ask. She doesn't consult with him she just goes about doing her job.

His hands rest on his hips, his jaw grinds, and the wheels turn and spin. He hears her series of Okays and thank you's.

"The alarm company is sending a responsible party down here with a key. The ETA is twenty minutes." She says and drops her phone back into her breast pocket. He notices she has on her thermal and only one button is undone. Her jacket is zipped and she looks everywhere but at him.

"I'm driving back to the gas station and getting a cup of coffee if you want to stay here and wait."

He attempts a corner smile, "I have my thermos." Not really offering but inferring. It's a trademark.

"No thanks." She says and walks away from him.

Before he can decide his course of action she's gone. Just like that. He sits on the front curb, his forearms rest on his knees, and the lack of anger on her part are just as surprising as the lack of urgency on his.

She pulls the Dodge to a stop and steps out with Styrofoam cup steaming from the brim. He watches as she purses her lips, blowing first, and taking a short sip. A white Prius enters the parking lot, "Bell Alarm and Security," scrolled on the side. The words squished into a gold liberty bell.

The security guard, clad in all black, with bell insignia patches steps out and greets them.

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

"That was quick." She says.

He smiles at her. His fresh face and eagerness are easily recognizable and familiar to her. She's used to men looking at her with relative pleasure. Maybe that's what drew her in? He never really paid attention to her. Not that kind of attention.

The guard unlocks the door and they enter clearing each room.

"Dispatch says the alarm hasn't been activated since the break-in."

"Break-in?" Walt asks as if he really did not know about it.

The guard flips open his basket weave notebook cover, "Looks like, June 6th, we received an alarm call, and Cumberland County deputies came out and took the report."

"You have the report number?" She asks.

"Sure do." He smiles and writes it down for her.

Vic takes the note and smirks noticing the phone number beneath the incident report number and the name Joe Hensley written next to it.

"I noticed you weren't wearing a ring." He smiles and this time she notices his perfectly straight white teeth. "I hope I'm not being completely unprofessional or inappropriate." He says.

"It never stopped anyone in my department."

She says and looks at Joe while Walt's eyes cringe ever so slightly. You would only notice the distaste in his face if you knew him well.

"Can you stick around for a few minutes and lock up for us?" She asks and Walt notices the softness in her voice.

"Sure." Joe takes the clue and waits for them outside.

"Do you know who we are looking for?" She asks before pulling open a file cabinet drawer. He listens for judgment in her voice but it is absent.

"She called him Desmond." He says and his eyes connect with hers for the first time.

There's pain there.

He feels it too.

"No last name?" Her eyes don't flinch or move and he's not sure if she's blinked.

He shakes his head and his voice is so low he clears his throat, "No."

"There's a lot of fucking files here." She says and pauses.

"Yup." He slings open the top drawer.

She stops, "Do you think we need a warrant?"

"Exigent circumstances."

He says but he stops and runs his thumb over his lips. It's a move she normally would become slightly unglued over and even though the prickly feeling is present on the back of her neck she takes the deep dive into the case. She walks away, looks outside of the glass door, and sees Joe leaning against the Prius, and though he's tall and filled out and probably the guy she should be interested in she's not.

Vic glances down at the appointment sign-in sheet and quickly scans the pages.

"Walt, I got a Desmond here, Desmond Chan."

He steps into the hallway empty handed, "Any others?"

She cuts him a look, "We're in Wyoming."

He smacks his teeth.

"He was here two weeks ago it looks like he's a regular Wednesday appointment except for the past couple of weeks."

She walks outside without another word and he watches her smile at the tall handsome guard. The recalcitrant wisp of hair floats free from her ponytail and she tucks it back behind her ear as her smile broadens. The tall man smiles back and Walt feels his stomach tighten and his face flex. It perplexes him.

He steps out and past them and waits in the passenger seat.

Joe sets the alarm and locks the front door. He waves as he leaves in the Prius.

She slams her door shut as he finishes the smooth transmission of information to Ruby. They sit in silence as she turns the engine waiting for an order or an apology. He fingers his breast pocket retrieving a Wyoming driver's license. He reads the address to her and she glances at the picture, then back at him.

The smugness eases in-between the vowels and syllables, "You don't know her address?"

He stays silent and rubs his jaw.

Five minutes into the twenty minute drive she asks, "How much do you know about her?"

"Enough." He says.


	2. Chapter 2

She hates it when he does this shit.

He answers but not really. It's on purpose. His defensiveness with her floats on the surface of their relationship and she doesn't know when it started or how it will end; the defensiveness or their relationship. At this point, she's not sure either is worth fixing much less worth fighting for or about.

"Why do you have her license, Walt?" It's a sick game she plays with herself much less him.

"She didn't have time to take her purse, Vic."

He looks at her subtly daring a response. Though she suspected they were together his confirmation slugs her in the stomach. She can read his conceit and her pain is only tempered by her anger. The anger she feels for allowing herself to feel this way about him. Of course, she is overreaching. Intellectually, she understands she cannot really allow or disallow feelings. They are feelings.

She clenches her jaw and mumbles, "You move fast."

The brim of his hat snaps in her direction, "So do you."

How does she tell him that she slept with Eamon in a moment of jealousy and weakness. She grinds her teeth and focuses her eyes to the road ahead and the thought that he did the same in reacting to her false confession never enters her mind.

"We're poaching in Cumberland County."

"We should call this in."

He radio's Ruby and gives her the address requesting she notify Cumberland County Sheriff's Department.

"Ok, Walt."

Ruby's voice squeaks back through the radio and he's thankful that she's not the type of woman to give him a verbal ration of shit but he is not looking forward to her huge blue eyes of disappointment.

Vic seeks solitude within herself. Her reversion to solid policing strengthens her and provides a temporary salve over an open emotional wound. She parks a solid distance from the Southwestern style single story and hops out of the truck gently closing her door as not to make any unnecessary sound. She walks point and directs Walt to the east side of the house looking for anything suspicious. When they meet at the rear of the Greystone colored home they both discover the rear sliding door ajar. Her Glock 19 is out before Walt can fully extend his fingers motioning that he's taking point.

The sliding door makes a soft cling as the metal frame door sinks into its pocket. They clear the kitchen and follow the narrow hallway before announcing, "Sheriff's Department!"

She hears the tussle of the mini-blinds and enters the office to see a pair of blue Hawaiian Vans push up and over the window seal.

"Runner!" She yells as she holsters her weapon and bolts through the window after him.

She doesn't have to think about Walt's reaction. She knows he's not behind her. He's cutting off the angle. His long legs carry him out of the front door and toward the sound of her voice. This is what they have always done well as partners and it is the only thread of comfort she still feels with him. She tackles the sophomoric framed young man to the dampened earth beneath them.

Her fingers are agile as she cuffs him and Walt yanks him to his feet. She can't tell if he's mad at him for being in Donna's house or mad that he ran from her or maybe both which puzzles her more. She decides it doesn't matter and brushes off the flakes of dirt embedded in the knees of her jeans.

"My mom lives here." The scraggly faced man says.

"Why'd you run then?" She retorts.

"I didn't know who you were." He says.

"What's your mother's name." Walt asks and without hesitation he answers, "Donna Monaghan."

Vic's eyes travel the length of Walt's frame and they roll back to the handcuffed prisoner. She pats him down for any weapons and reaches into his back pocket retrieving his wallet. She rips open the black Velcro closure and hands Walt the California driver's license.

"Andrew Price." He says looking at him, "Huntington Beach, California."

Andrew snaps his neck forcing his hair back and out of his face, "Yeah."

"How'd you get in the house?" Walt asks.

Andrew looks between them. "I don't have to talk to you. Ask her yourself, why I'm here."

"I will." Walt says and grips the bony elbow of his young arrestee, his long fingers swallowing the flexible joint, as he guides him to the truck.

"Walt, we should call Cumberland and have them transport plus we'll need some help with the search."

"Yup." He says as he looks up toward the sky as if the answers will descend from the patchwork of clouds above.

Ten minutes later the first deputy rolls his silver Charger to a stop next to the truck.

"What you got?" Eamon asks.

With each break in her sentences Walt's stomach clinches and he's not sure if it's his outright disdain for the young handsome deputy or the images of Vic in his arms that are causing him the most anxiety. His mind spins and the inner chastisement begins. He submerges his confusion about her and stands with his hand on his hip holding Andrew Price by the elbow thankful she's telling the brief sanitized version of events.

"I can transport for you, Walt." Eamon says his big brown eyes don't shift from the older powerful man.

Walt hands over his prisoner without a word exchanging between them. He exposes the top of his hat as his head dips down before he turns on his heels and walk back toward the house.

"What's his problem?" Eamon asks.

"What's not his problem?" She replies.

Eamon secures Andrew in the backseat of his cruiser and turns to Vic, "So what's up, Vic? How'd Walt's Bronco come up stolen?"

Her face flattens and she shakes her head. Her ponytail flops from the motion while she processes the fact that despite everything she is strangely loyal to the man who seemingly dismisses her.

"His girlfriend may have a stalker as a patient."

"Walt's girlfriend?" His eyebrows arch at her response.

"Yeah, some dude named Desmond Chan, as far as we can tell."

She knows that he's deciding right now at this moment if she's worth it, if she's too damaged for the effort it would require. Before he can respond the familiar rumble from the big block V8 silences him.

The Ferg steps out of the Atlantis blue Firebird and says, "We may have a lead on the Bronco."


	3. Chapter 3

He rescued her from her thoughts. She was thankful to him and she envied him in her own way as he approached them seemingly engrossed in the entire situation. He kept his voice low as if Walt would suddenly leap from the dense trees surrounding the classically styled property.

"Jada Andersen called Ruby. She was prying as usual about Heather having visitors and cutting through on her private road."

Vic's shoulders press back as she and Eamon listen to Ferg's detailed turn of events.

"She sorta unleashed on Ruby telling her it was the Sheriff." Ferg looks away then back at them as if he's editing the real time version of the phone call, "We put two-and-two together and well."

Ferg sighs and Vic's eyes roll toward the house.

"What's the play here, Vic?" Eamon asks.

Her mouth twists and she looks at Ferg, "Ferg, transport the prisoner and then meet us out there. It's on the county line so I'll have Eamon come with us in case the old lady goes bat-shit crazy on us and becomes a distraction."

Ferg's lips press together and stiffness comes over his face as he nods in agreement and he moves Andrew Price to his unconventional police car.

She recaps the update to Walt and he doesn't ask any questions. He barely looks at her as he thumps a sealed envelope against his fingers. He presses the letter into his back pocket and doesn't say a word and as he follows her out of the door she tosses him the keys to her truck, "I'll ride with Eamon." She says and Walt's guts do another summersault.

He grunts as his eyes squint to the mid-morning sun. That's what lovers do he tells himself and predictably it does not make him feel any better about the situation. His hypocrisy is evident, even to him, but he presses on and follows the Charger onto the main road. He rubs his jaw with fingers that had only recently caressed the soft curves of Donna's body but oddly the brief memory does nothing to appease him. The ball in his stomach is winding up tighter and it's swelling just a little larger as he watches Eamon through the rear window taking routine glances at Vic and smiling. He puts the connection together and attributes it to the reality of the situation. He failed to protect his witness, possible victim, probable suspect, potential girlfriend. No matter which side he comes down on he's is in trouble, if not legally, than most certainly ethically by dating someone involved in a case. He's on the rail, not quite off of it, and as he drives against the glare of the sun, he can't help think he could fix this but for the life of him he isn't really sure how or if in fact he wants to and that fact confuses him more than anything.

Jada Andersen is waiting for them on her sprawling wrap around porch. She's wealthy, not rich, and she doesn't miss an opportunity to use that to her advantage.

"Took you long enough."

She says. Her lower teeth are stained from years of dipping. That's acceptable and polite behavior in these parts. She doesn't spit in public though that would be unladylike. She pivots her tongue subtly rearranging the pinch she has perched between her gum and her cheek. Her face frowns reflecting her bit of confusion seeing Walt get out of the truck instead of the Bronco.

"Hmm" she says loudly as if she's not embarrassed that anyone knows she's pretty much talking to herself, "Thought I saw you in your Bronco tearing up my road, Sheriff."

Walt takes off his hat, rests his leg on her lower porch, "How long ago was that Mrs. Andersen."

"You sure are getting' old." She says, "But then again I ain't seen you in a month of Sunday's. Since Martha died you can't seem to find your way to church except for funerals and such."

The older matriarchal woman finds his place and puts him in it without any qualms. Age and money. It's a deadly combination.

Walt shifts his weight and bears down on his hips, "Been busy Sheriffin'." He smiles and his voice goes a little weak, "You know that."

Her countenance softens and she shows a few more stained teeth, "I suppose I do."

"What did you see, ma'am."

"That old Bronc of yours going like a bat outta hell tearin' up my road."

Walt turns and looks back at the road. He studies Vic for a moment, the sunlight caught in her hair, framing her face. The image disrupted only by Eamon standing next to her having a quiet conversation meant only for the two of them.

"You figure it was headed to Heather's place?"

"Nowhere else to go heading that way, Walter."

"I figure you're right." He brushes his hat on the side of his thick thigh.

"After you go check it out come back by here and see about an old woman."

"I may not be able too." He puts his hat on his head. "I'm working a case. A kidnapping, really."

"Your truck got kidnapped."

"Something like that." He turns to walk back toward the white truck.

"Hmmm." She says.

"You ever go see Cole?" She asks just loud enough for him to hear her and he stops dead in his tracks and turns back to face her.

"Sometimes." He spits on the ground next to his boot and looks back at her, "But not like I should, Jada. Not like I should." His lower lip pushes up and his half-frown, half-smile reflect his humility and his shame.

He holds his head down and his left leg drags a little more than usual putting that sway into his hips that Vic forces herself not to stare at but she does look this time because he looks different.

"What'd the old lady say?" Eamon asks and Walt's blue eyes penetrate the young deputy's skin straight through to his bones.

This isn't the time to teach him the history lessons he needs to know he thinks and his silence is interpreted as arrogance or worse a form of jealousy that he's displayed before when it comes to his female deputy. Eamon looks off to the side, takes in a deep breath of the clean pure country air, and waits for the orders that are sure to come from the older lawman.

"Vic, ride with me so I can brief you on the situation." He says in a not-so-firm bark.

"No, Walt." She says with her arms folded across her chest. "You need to brief both of us. This is an officer safety situation."

His jaw clicks back and then forth, "The truck may be at Heather Andersen's place. She's always in Italy this time of year. The house should be empty."

"I'll follow you guys in." Eamon says and turns away before there's any more argument to be made. He starts up the Charger as a clue for the two of them.

Vic swings the driver's door open and slams the door. She stares at his long frame as he ambles across the front of the truck, his head down, rounds the fender, and gets in with his dusty boot landing on the rubberized weather floor mat handing her the keys. Their hands don't touch and she thinks he did that on purpose because she knows she did.

"Tell me the way." She says starting the truck and putting on her Ray Bans.

"Just follow the road." He says.

Vic looks out of her window and impulsively waves goodbye to the old woman on the towering porch but when she isn't greeted with a wave back she's not offended because she sees her slow nod and somehow Vic knows there's more than he's willing to tell between him and the old woman. She doesn't wait but she looks at him first, his fingers laced through the sissy bar, "You gonna tell me or what?"

"What?" His voice is gentle.

"What's going on, Walt?"

"How would anyone know that Heather isn't here?"

"How do you know. Did she tell you?"

He shakes his head, "No, but she's been going to Italy my entire life."

Vic looks, "Who are these people?"

"The Andersen's."

"Fuck, Walt. Come on."

He looks down at his feet and back through the front glass, "Ol' John Andersen was a lawman way back before I was born. His people settled in Wyoming back when it was a territory. They're Swedes. Anyway, they made their fortune in cattle and land and a little oil. Jada's family was wealthy though. She married down but she married good. John taught Lucian and he taught me."

"You never talk about him."

He looks at her and she swears his eyes turn transparent right before her, "Hurts too much." His lips seal shut. He looks back out of his window and rubs his fingers over his shallow bearded face. She wants to ask him more. She wants to ask him everything.

"How would Desmond Chan know to come here?" She says.

"Don't know." He answers and adjusts his hips in the seat, "But we'll find out."


	4. Chapter 4

"We're just assuming it's Desmond Chan." She says.

He captures a glimpse of her profile and he suddenly feels a sense of loss. They were friends not so long ago. He could trust her with anything. He believed it until he didn't. The truck bounces down the dirt road kicking up the inevitable Wyoming dust cloud behind them. Her eyes don't meet his, though she can feel him, she ignores his silence because she knows he's not being selfish with his thoughts he's just formulating them. He smacks his lips the way he does as the connections thread through his mind. The tire tracks are obvious on the uncommonly travelled path and she follows them past the craftsman styled single story home.

"The tracks run out." She looks around and he peers through his window as if he's staring off into a distance that only he can see.

"May have double backed." He says, throwing his thumb over his shoulder.

She doesn't reply though she doesn't like the uneasy feeling of an all-terrain vehicle simply disappearing.

"We better check that house." She commands. It's not open for negotiation. His lips purse in agreement but his eyes are dark and suddenly sad like he's just realizing the gravity of the situation.

She looks at him as she pushes the gearshift into park. There's no need asking what he's thinking so she doesn't but he takes a moment too long opening his door as his eyes meet hers. It makes her think of Arizona and she tilts her head because her thoughts are out of context. The way he looked at her those few hours alone, she knew he had done everything he could since then not feel that way again, as time etched between them. He was good at it and she despised him because she couldn't do the same.

When he does step out of the truck his fingers spread over his back pocket and fall back down to his side after he feels the letter still tucked inside. He doesn't wait for Eamon as he walks towards Heather's house but Vic does wait for him and they flank Walt as he approaches the front door. Walt stands at an angle, looks over to each side, and knocks with just one knuckle on the custom crafted entry. He raps a few times and Vic peers through the window as Eamon checks the back.

"The back is clear from what I can tell." Eamon says.

"I can't see through the curtains." Vic says.

Walt looks at his watch and back at the door leaning his weight on his good leg his jaw flexes as he waits. The miniature brass inset opens and he sees Heather's green eye looking back at him. He takes his hat off and holds it down by his leg. The heavy door opens and Heather stands in her stocking feet, her lithe body engulfed in an oversized bathrobe, her wet hair clinging to her refined features.

"Heather." The tenderness in his voice transports her to another time.

"Walter?" Her surprise is tempered by the sweetness of her tone. She pulls the robe tighter around her neck. "I thought I saw you drive by earlier."

He shakes his head just once, "Did you happen to see which way the Bronco went?"

"It came up and then back down toward the main road. I thought maybe you changed your mind." Heather puts her well-manicured hand to her forehead moving it back and forth across her damp skin catching little beads of water.

Walt steps into the doorframe, "You're not in Italy." His voice is markedly softer and more familiar.

"Not this season." She says shyly.

"You never miss." He says and she smiles for a moment averting her eyes away from him.

"I'd invite you all in but I'm not fit for company."

Vic and Eamon converge behind him but move toward the truck giving the two old friends the privacy their body language commands.

Her eyes connect with his and he asks, "Do you know Desmond Chan?"

Her head begins to nod on the sound of the second syllable. "No."

She traces her hair back behind her ear with her index finger. "Is that who you were looking for earlier?"

"He may be a kidnapping suspect." His thumb scales the hardened wood doorframe. "If you see my Bronco again will you call 9-1-1?"

Her eyebrows arch consistent with her unspoken questions.

"I think he kidnapped someone and he may be in my truck."

She reaches out and her fingers land on his weathered jacket resting on his forearm. "Oh my. How terrifying." The concern apparent in her voice. "Is it someone I know?"

"She's not from here. The victim." He's almost apologetic. "Dr. Donna Monaghan."

She arches her neck back as if he slapped her, "The psychiatrist?"

He nods, "You know her?" He keeps his face firm refusing to reveal any surprise.

"I know her." She presses her palm against the naked damp hollow of her neck. "My goodness, what happened?"

"How do you know her, Heather?"

"Answer my question."

"You haven't changed." He says in almost a whisper, his fingers wrap around the door frame.

"Neither have you. Always deflecting and avoiding."

Walt looks down at his boots and his eyes follow her frame up to her eyes.

"You still have that old Winchester?" He asks her.

"Why?"

"I can't spare the man power and I don't like the idea of you being out here all alone."

"That hasn't changed either."

"What's that?"

"Saving the damsel in distress."

"That's never been you."

"Hasn't it?"

He shakes his head, "I wouldn't characterize it as that."

"You don't need to worry about me." She answers.

"I always will."

"That's what you say."

She pulls her robe tighter and shakes her head and takes a deep breath. "I promise I'll call."

"Tell me." He says and it's part order and part plea.

"I met her in Cheyenne at a fundraiser for her non-profit for Vets. She seems to do good work, Walt." She pauses and clears her throat but it cracks just the same, "I contributed in Cole's name."

He smacks his lips lightly and looks down again and shifts his hat in his hands, "I'm sorry." He says and their eyes reconnect.

"I know." She says, "That hasn't changed either."

He shakes his head, "No."

"Walter, when did this happen?"

"A couple of hours ago."

"But why would this guy be in your Bronco?" She looks perplexed, "What the hell is going on?"

His embarrassment wasn't real before but it's in the forefront now, "Donna was at my place and someone kicked in my door. She knew him. She left with him."

Her face falls, "If I see the Bronco I will call."

He senses her disappointment, "Maybe go down to the big house. I really don't like the idea of you being alone up here or Jada being on her own either."

"I don't care what you don't like." Heather says plainly.

"Heather." He says her name like it is warm honey dripping from his full mouth.

He notices her lips tighten, "Why aren't you in Italy?"

"It's not your concern, Sheriff."

His mouth twists and his chest heaves with a heavy sigh.

"Are you okay?" He pushes past the resistance.

"I'm not your concern, Walter." She stares at him and challenges him silently with the harshness of her words.

"I'm sorry about that too." He steps past the edge of the door but she doesn't retreat and as his thumb and finger pinch the arms edge of her robe, "You've always known that."

She looks down at his hand and covers it with her own as she constricts her lips, "Is Frank, okay?"

He doesn't answer as his head turns to the side questioning her.

"Donna's husband." Heather says.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N - Work, life, and all the other demands of my time are in full force. It's a short update but hopefully worth your time.**

* * *

He pulls the letter from his back pocket and reads the addressed name, "Frank Price."

She nods but doesn't offer more.

He thumps the letter with his finger, "Different name?"

"Donna kept her maiden name. She's a professional woman, Walter." She sighs loudly, "It's a common practice."

He nods and says, "I know it is."

He squints looking off to the side and then back to her, this time thumping the letter against his hand like a judge with a gavel before returning it to his back pocket. The denim molds around the thin veil of truth.

"She mention any kids?"

"A son. They don't talk about him much but I gather from pieces here and there he was in the military."

He nods and asks, "Will you go down and sit with Jada for a while?" His eyes weaken while the memories fill and rush through his veins. "Even if it's just to appease me?" He asks.

"I'll think about it." She says.

"I never could talk you into anything. Could I?" The delicate words peel back the scab.

"You never talked much." She's says, "Unless my memories have betrayed me."

His bottom lip disappears deflecting the sadness that has existed between them for three decades. His eyes don't fall as she closes the door without either of them exchanging customary salutations.

Vic waits. She sees the slump of his shoulders. His eyes divert hers as he positions himself in the passenger seat of her truck. She turns, her eyes roll back, time slows. He notices everything about her. His brain catalogues the slope of her lips. He is confused. He is angry. He needs to find Donna. The seedlings of panic sprout way deep inside of his gut. The blade of his hand strokes his bottom lip from muscle memory. He closes his eyes to forge obstacles from the subcutaneous flow of energy that shield the soft texture beneath.

His eyes flash at the sudden sound of her voice, "What the fuck is your problem, Walt?"

"Nothing." He orders. "Let's go."

"Go where?"

"Back to the turnout."

She pauses remembering he is her boss then pulls even with Eamon and tells him to set up on the far side. Backing into the turnout her lips twist and pucker refusing to rail against his silence. Walt rolls the fabric of his jeans between his fingers and the cotton surrenders to his touch.

"You aren't going to ask?" He asks not looking at her.

"It's personal." She says and quickly adds, "It's none of my business."

They sit staring out of the front window long enough for the engine to cool and stop its rhythmic ticking.

"I wanted to marry her."

His words cut through. Her heart jumps into her throat just before it stops. She can control her breathing but not the flood of color to her face. She's conscious enough to pray he doesn't look at her and when his head doesn't move she takes a deep breath.

"Marry, who?"

"Heather."

Her relief isn't immediate and her steely eyes flash back to the road recalling the refined features of the robed woman that held his familiar attention at the door. He doesn't dare meet her eyes. He needs her approval, her understanding really, but he's not going to get it because he doesn't' deserve it. At least, not now. Not anymore.

It takes two swallows to get the knot to subside in her throat.

"You think this Desmond character is going to come back?"

"I don't think he ever left."

"The tracks didn't go through." She looks at him this time. She notices the lines around his eyes created by squinting instead of laughter and that makes her sad.

"Heather never misses a fashion season whether it's New York, Italy, or Iceland."

She waits for him to fill in the missing pieces and hidden secrets of his past but his lips seal.

"Let me guess. She was a model."

"Yup."

"Figures."

He keeps his eyes straight ahead as if he can't handle the pain of his failures in front of her.

"She's still in the industry. It's why she shouldn't be here."

Her lips twist and roll back around to ask, "What's the next play?"

"We wait." He says looking at her and adds, "and figure out why Donna wanted to be with me?"

"Fuck you." She says and he cocks his head.

"Vic." He says.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Hello to all the amazing folks I met at Longmire Days! What an awesome experience. It's been a long time since I've been able to visit this story. The plan is to finish before the season 5 premiere date. Thank you for your patience and let's hope it doesn't disappoint.**_

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Anger floods through him. His muscles twist and contort at the rage of the situation and her borderline insubordination.

"What is your problem?" His words are sharp as if he is suddenly aware that she is being disrespectful.

She shakes her head back and forth as her eyes scan the road.

"Nothing. Nothing is my problem."

"Vic." He says her name harder and their eyes meet and don't waiver.

"I don't care anymore." She says, "You can write me up or fire me. It doesn't matter."

His lips press firmly together as the boundaries of his emotional capabilities stretch and tear.

"Are you really this oblivious or are you just a fucking asshole?" She shakes her head as her eyes squint trying to seek any hint of hope.

"I thought this would be an ok time."

"For what?"

"To talk."

"No. You didn't."

Their respective hearts shred in a crisscross pattern with little pieces of flesh floating and swirling between them serving as an occasional reminder of the mutual damage they have done to each other. That's how they leave it. The investigation takes precedence as it should. With his descent into silence she feels part relief and part dismissal but when she spies the Bronco casually lurching up the dirt road she clears her throat and he sits up in his seat. His eyes squint slightly avoiding her judgment. His hand blades against his forehead out of habit verifying the occupants and he sees the golden hues of Donna's hair. His heart doesn't stop. His breath doesn't come up short like it did at the sight of his partner on the madman's porch.

Vic fervently manipulates her thumbs on her iPhone and Walt can only presume she's texting Eamon. She eases the Dodge onto the dirt road, the Bronco just out of sight.

"Eamon will meet us on the east side."

Walt thins his lips as his mind leaps forward filling in the narrative. She doesn't take this silence as insult. This is how they work. When they work. She pulls to the side and they walk the forty yards toward the house as he stares ahead occasionally looking around as if ghosts were following them and maybe they were. He doesn't dismiss the possibility. Eamon's hand is in the air and he silently points towards the rear of the house indicating he has eyes on the corner. They form a triangle for observation and Walt approaches the door and lightly knocks on the custom door. His thumb cocks the Colt's hammer.

Her footsteps are soft on the other side but he hears them.

"Heather, open the door." He says and it is seductively soft but strangely in context.

Vic tilts her head and glares at him trying to decipher the abnormality of his behavior. This time when the door opens he wedges his worn leathered boot between the door and the jam. Vic moves closer keeping her angle with her Glock to her side.

"I know they are here." He says and her toes curl as she steps aside, his hand presses against her arm and he shifts past her in the threshold. Vic is on his heels and doesn't exchange pleasantries with Heather as she enters the perfectly decorated home.

"They are in the study. Go on in." She gives him a half-smile, "You remember the way." It's a declarative statement as much for his benefit as hers.

Walt keeps his hand on his Colt and shortens the distance to the room his blue eyes are bright and transfixed as he searches for the threat. Walt blades the corner and Donna looks over to him, her fingers interlaced between her knees, as she leans forward sinking in the soft imported davenport.

"Desmond, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine." Her voice is clinical void of emotion. "He's here to help us like we talked about."

Desmond looks over his shoulder his weathered face partially hidden by his Army fatigue jacket. He scrapes his fingers across his weathered chin sizing up the tall lawman.

"Desmond." Walt says with the calm familiarity of men who have been to war.

Walt looks at Donna and shifts his weight and the floorboard creaks under the strain. With a slight nod he motions for her to come to him. His arm forms an instinctive barrier as she moves around him sweeping past. Vic resents the gesture but she covers him as he cuffs Desmond without dramatic effect. They work in a perfect tandem without exchanging a word and with the last click of the metal cuff Desmond begins to sob.

"He's suffering from a complete mental break." Donna proclaims.

Walt looks back at her and his lips purse acknowledging her assessment.

"If you can give us a ride to the hospital, Walt, I'll do the paperwork." She is nonchalant about the entire episode and Vic returns the attitude in kind by walking out of the high end home and leaving Walt to both his past and his future.

Eamon meets her at her truck and doesn't ask what happened.

"You ok?" His eye closes from the sun.

She shakes her head but she's not about to cry.

"Want me to kick his ass?" He half-smiles when she doesn't respond.

"You want me to try to kick his ass?"

He shows teeth this time when he smiles and it earns him an eye roll. He'll take that under the circumstances because he knows that's all she will ever be capable of giving him. The aloof lawman has her heart.


	7. Chapter 7

"Have coffee with me later." He asks a little flirty like he's playing with her.

She doesn't answer, just shakes her head.

He looks back over his shoulder, tucks his thumbs in his Wranglers, "It's just coffee, Vic."

"It was just a ride home." She's defiant in her shame.

This time he shakes his head.

"I think you need a friend." Eamon's eyes squint and his dimples peek through the thickness of his beard, "I'd like to think I was one."

Her stomach knots when the natural wood door eases open the way they do when they are really expensive. Walt catches her eyes. He doesn't understand what he feels but before his brain can override his heart her eyes shift to the young Cumberland deputy.

She asks just enough details for the psychiatric hold paperwork and secures Desmond in her truck for transport. She doesn't stay to hear the sob story. She does her job. It's the one thing she has always done well despite the assholes in her life. She doesn't give a shit. At least the lie is believable for now. Fuck him, she thinks, as she paces the truck purposely toward the hospital. She has purpose in her endeavor.

"You won't hurt me?" He asks meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Nope." She says noticing the sadness and the pain in the stranger's eyes.

She checks the odometer out of caution. The empty roads have a way of tricking you she reminds herself. She has to watch her speed.

"What happened to you?" Her voice is absent the bitchiness she feels.

"The war." He says as he scratches his jaw on the front of his polo clad shoulder, "Nothing ever clicked when I got back home. You know?"

"Sorry." She says and it sounds sincere because it is.

His lips twist and his head shakes as he looks out of the window.

"She fucked with me more than those bastards in Iraq."

Her eyes meet his again but they don't stay there. She doesn't want to spook him and she didn't read him his rights.

"I wasn't going to hurt her."

Vic clears her throat, "Desmond, I have to read you your rights." She pauses, "But technically it's not illegal to be bat shit crazy." She smiles and he laughs.

She processes his paperwork for the psychiatric ward and explains that they will hold him for an evaluation but then he really is in custody for kidnapping Donna and that he will be transported to the psychiatric ward in Sheridan while he awaits trial if the District Attorney decides to press charges.

He nodded that he understood.

"Don't let him do it." He says as the orderlies strap him to the gurney.

Her eyebrows scrunch asking the question for her.

"She has him in her web. That's how she gets you."

"Has who."

His face wipes plain. He's insulted now. His lips tighten and she knows what's happening and she thinks maybe she did it on purpose.

The WYDOT construction sign flashes by her peripheral vision. The back tires kick compensating for speed and the loose gravel spurts and spits into the underbody.

"Fuck."

She exclaims coming to a complete stop. Her palms slam against the top of the steering wheel and her anger isn't so much about nearly spinning out in the county truck but more about how stupid she feels about him, about this town, this job, her defunct marriage, about everything.

She pulls her hair back and twists her jaw in defiance. The back of her fingers slide under her dampening eye. She wipes her wet finger on her faded skin tight jeans and shifts her truck into drive. Her voice wraps around and twists inside reminding her that she is better than this. She deserves better than him.

The next few minutes are easy enough and she they turn into uneventful hours because she missed Walt reuniting Donna with her son. It turns out his story was legit. When the station phone rings she startles but luckily Ferg doesn't notice as his eyes grow large like an eager little boy.

"Um, that was Walt." He clears his throat. His eyes return to normal.

"He's taking Donna back to her office for Chan's records for the psychiatric ward in Sheridan." His lips fold back inside themselves.

"Looney fucking toons." She studies Ferg's face to confirm she is successfully playing it off. He is much smarter than any of them really give him credit for but she decides in that moment if he stays oblivious so will she as the thinly veiled wall around her heart begins to crack.

She leaves the office after making an unnecessary excuse about extra patrol. She wonders why she makes up alibies when no one really asks her for one. It's human nature she thinks and it's why people get caught. They trap themselves into a story.

Despite her best efforts she can't help but think of what story he told Donna about her. If he didn't say anything she thinks that would be worse than the truth. An hour later, she's parked in the driveway and making the very conscious decision to drink until the pain numbs enough to not actually kill her. Her phone call to Ferg is believable enough. She really is sick to her stomach but not sick enough to stop her from hanging up and dialing his phone number.


	8. Chapter 8

"Vic."

His voice is gravely and she understands by the tone that he may be concerned. Concerned enough not to hang-up the phone.

"I hate you."

She sniffs and slurs slightly but her words are clear enough for him to understand that's not what she is really saying.

"Where are you?"

"I know where I am."

"No, Vic, where are you?"

"You already know."

He does.

The silence between them emulates the gulf that has formed the past months. It is invisible to the untrained eye but it is here like an undetectable halon gas sucking the life blood out of whatever this is between them.

"Vic, let me come to you."

"It's too late."

"Don't say that."

She could hear the floorboard squeak beneath his feet and imagines his weight distributing equally between his hips.

Her cheek brushes the cell phone and he presses his ear to hear her but it is too late. The absence of the dial tone stalls his response but he pushes his heel into his boot and the rest is muscle memory as he grabs his rifle and places his hat on his head. The basic wood slab serves its purpose as a makeshift door. The dim lights of the beat up Bronco catch the white paint.

She's not drunk but she knows she can't drive and when his lights flash across the passenger side of her truck for a moment she thinks he will fire her and then a slight panic that he just might arrest her. She would deserve it for being so stupid she thinks and it would confirm that he really is a dick.

The light cuts, he coasts to a stop, and in the stillness of the country air she can hear the melodic metal click of his door shutting closed. He lifts the fiberglass handle and never thinks to rap his broad knuckle on the glass. It's a reminder of everything he has taken for granted as he pushes the door open causing the hinges to groan under the stretch of his wingspan.

He doesn't stammer. He doesn't stutter. He stands silently soaking her in taking stock of all he's accountable for.

Vic turns her head and flashes her golden eyes in his direction and despite the literal ache inside of her chest she notices how beautiful he is and that makes the ache deeper. A different kind of ache. She blinks. He blinks back.

Walt slides his hip forward and folds his legs into the truck and the click of the door is familiar but it's not the same. None of it is the same.

"You can go back to your harem." She says.

His jaw isn't quite set when he says, "Come on, Vic."

"You fucking come on." Her fingers wrap around the steering wheel. "I didn't invite you into my truck."

"You can't drive."

"Technically, I can."

He turns and flexes his jaw. He notices how beautiful she is in the yellow half-moon and it infuriates him. She knows the code to bypass the alarm that sends him into an emotional panic.

Without warning he gently tugs the bottle out of her hand and she's pretty sure he leaves his hand to linger on hers on purpose. He takes a long deep drink and shakes his head as liquid amber burns down his throat.

"You should have wiped it clean."

His eyes squint like he's staring into the sun, "Why?"

"You don't want my cooties."

"You have cooties?" His voice is temporarily raspy from the whiskey and a little flirty like he's testing the waters after a years long drought.

"You act like I do."

"Maybe I do."

He looks at the bottle and tilts it in his hand, his thumb rubs the label, "We've shared a bottle before. I'm not worried."

"I'm sure she does."

"She doesn't know."

She feels oddly relieved and repulsed at the same time.

"She doesn't know you have cooties, Vic." His lips part and curl and now she is sure he is flirting.

"Fuck you."

He takes another swallow. He's trying to catch-up. He's been trying for four years. He shoves the bottle between his legs and says, "I don't know how to explain."

"Good, cause I don't want to hear your bullshit." Her hand is up directing his words elsewhere.

He wraps her fingers in his and leans toward her, past the mile of cold sea between them, his lips land on hers for a gently foggy moment and he whispers in her wet mouth, "It's not bullshit." She can taste the sweet alcohol on his lips and he searches for the bitterness of her whiskey laden tongue. He nearly faints in her light. It's swift and it's hard like he always knew it would be and his stomach lurches like a rollercoaster before she shoves him away.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. He wishes she had slapped him instead. It would have hurt less. They sit in silence long enough for normalcy to return.

"I'll go make some coffee."

She nods.

The rocks push deeper into the dirt under his weight. His soul is bloated with decision. The beat up faded green thermos hangs on to remnants of the Colt sticker.

"Thanks." She says as he places the thermos and a sandwich wrapped in a paper towel on top of the plaid blanket he brought for her.

"It's not one of those blankets." He points his long finger toward the bounty he's laid before her.

She notices his hat tilt before he steps back but this time she doesn't wait for him.

"Close the door, Walt."

He turns and she hears the metal click to the Bronco. He doesn't drive away. He stays the night parked next to her in front of his cabin.


	9. Chapter 9

The crisp air billows around him but that's only part of the reason he can't sleep. He watches over her as if he has a right to take on the responsibility. To protect her. To keep her. As her partner, he rationalizes his behavior. He sits and waits though he has no business doing either. They lay awake, separately, in the middle of the night as familiar strangers.

The whiskey eventually wilts her defiance. She drifts in and out while rolling through all the things she wishes she had said to him when he was only two feet away. She wasn't surprised by his behavior, it was predictable. The action momentarily made her heart tug and that fact pissed her off. His behavior was clearly out of bounds for any rational human being but so easily interpreted as protective or thoughtful when truthfully he asserted his authority, real or perceived, in unwelcome places.

Before dawn the need to pee become her primary conscious thought. The trees and his cabin are not options so she eases out to the paved road and guns it. If he is awake she made her point she thinks. She calls the station with confidence knowing he isn't there to answer the phone. There just wasn't enough time. Even that knowledge doesn't stop her from sighing with relief when Ruby answers.

"Hey, it's me. I'm not feeling so well, Ruby." She feels her face frown like the words don't sound right.

"Oh, hun. Ferg told me you weren't feeling well. Do you have anything decent to eat? I could bring something over."

She coughs, like she thinks she should, "No, Ruby I'll be ok but thank you."

"Whatever it is it must being going around Walter called in sick just before you."

Her heart stops. Literally.

"He did?" Her voice is higher than she anticipates. Her surprise is real. She tries to overcompensate but decides to settle for authenticity.

"Yeah, first time I think." Her voice trails off as if she was counting back their years together, "First time for you, too." She chuckles, "Come to think of it."

"Yeah, lots of firsts."

"Get some rest. Call if you need anything."

"Thanks, Ruby."

She presses the large red virtual button on her iPhone and tucks it into her jacket pocket. The hot shower and vanilla currant candle helped along with the greasy sausage McMuffin she snagged on the way home. While brushing her teeth she figures that Ruby thinks they are doing it but in that instant she decides to move on. It was as easy as that. A simple decision made without drama or fanfare.

He knew he couldn't face her and he knew that made him a coward. Wars have been waged for lessor stakes, just ask Paris, he thinks. He paints images of betrayal. She'd lied to him. That was a fact. He believed her because he wanted too. His greatest anger is self-directed. He could not come back from feeling foolish or for being a fool.

Ruby didn't take pity on him when he called. He didn't know what to make of that. He feels resentful. He holds the phone in his hand for so long his fingers start tingling and a few knuckles crack when he stretches his lengthy digits.

The melodic drive to the ranch isn't sufficient time to sort out why he's there. She opens the door on the third knock. Her eyes pierce through, she steps aside without saying a word, and he follows her through to the dated but classically styled sitting room lifting his hat and tucking it between his deft fingers.

"Jada." He says his voice low and soft.

She shifts the chew between her lips and eyes him without recourse pointing to the davenport opposite her chair.

He twirls his hat between his knees and pats his hair down as he offers a slight smile.

"It's been a long time." His eyes spark for a moment remembering, "Since we've sat like this."

"It has." She confirms not giving him an inch of kindness.

His eyes circle back through the room and land at the base of her feet as if he expects the answers to come pouring out of the custom crafted wood baseboard.

After a while he says, "I visited Cole a few weeks ago."

Her eyes dart toward him challenging his statement.

"I was in Sheridan." He pauses, "On a case."

Her mouth stops moving with his first admission. She spits in her crushed can of Tab.

"I know."

His eyes drift slowly to hers and he's barely audible when he says, "Absolution."

"You've come to the wrong place for that."

She huffs and scurries her walking stick out then quickly pulls it back contemplating it as a weapon or a necessity.

"I have enough regrets of my own without taking ownership of yours."

He shakes his head his lips smacking in the process. Looking down at his boots remembering and searching in separate compartments some larger than others and some so small they are barely detectible. Their eyes meet and a lifetime passes before them.

"You still ain't learned." She says and readjusts her lower lip.

His eyes are full, peaking over the barrier he has skillfully erected. The cane extends the length of her arm and points to the designated spot for family photos and just as quickly descends to its place next to her as the words spill from her mouth, "Don't you go raising those eyebrows at me."

He flattens his face just as he did as an 18 year old hired hand.

"You've always been stuck in your high minded ideas about things and the world just doesn't give a damn about high mindedness."

"Seems like it once did." He says.

"That was long ago." She tugs at her dress and looks back at the pictures gracing the mantle, "But maybe it wasn't really so."

"You think I was wrong?"

"Doesn't matter what I think." She snaps.

He shakes his head and spins his hat one full rotation between his knees. His lips curl and he looks up their eyes meeting once more. She recognizes the recognition.

"I always told John I thought you'd been kicked in the head by one of them horses. The only explanation I had for you being so plain dumb about things."

His eyes narrow and focus, "I was honorable."

She shakes her head.

"We all were."

He shakes his head.

"We were stupid."

She takes in too much air and it causes her to snort, "Yes, indeed."

She tells him he was a distraction, a good time, nothing serious. She sounds scripted but it's doesn't matter. None of it did. He's only sorry that he threw away what did over something that was meaningless. His visits to Cole are more frequent and on a rainy drive back from Sheridan he stops in front for the familiar Craftsman with the county pickup truck occupying half of the driveway.

He presses his palm flat against the white painted door. He's upright and straight, hat tilted, feeling for her on the other side. His gentle knock is sturdy and when she opens the door the preplanned words, the confession doesn't take shape.

"I don't know where I am but I know I don't like it."


End file.
